


Forget You Not

by Azar443



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-08-23 03:55:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16611455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azar443/pseuds/Azar443
Summary: What kind of a person would forget the face of someone they loved?





	Forget You Not

It’s been more than a year. The days haven’t dragged on unbearably long, not like everyone said they would. Newt doesn’t feel as though time slowed down, mocking him. There is grief, certainly, a hole in his heart he isn’t sure will ever be filled completely, but he doesn’t sink into a stupor, unable to do anything but mourn. His life goes on; there are still creatures to learn about and crazed wizards to track down. Sometimes, he wonders if he should feel any guilt because he’s _living_ without Percival.

He finds it more and more difficult to remember what his dark haired lover looked like, and struggles to remember the rich, smoky timbre of his voice. He finds a letter Percival wrote to him one day, and is surprised to realise that Percival’s handwriting wasn’t the neat cursive he remembered it to be. Newt realises he’s forgetting so many things, and knows with a quiet sort of finality, that one day he’ll completely forget the man Percival used to be. He’ll only have a vague memory of a man he loved once. The worst thing than losing someone, he thinks, is losing the memory of the person you've lost.

* * *

 

It has been a long day and Newt is exhausted after the Niffler decides to run rampant once again. He catches the critter and gives it a stern talking to before he’s back at his desk, a set of pins in his hand. The soft lighting in his suitcase catches the emeralds in the scorpions’ eyes, and his memory provides flashes of black and white and a sharp undercut, and there’s a sense of yearning for something that’s no longer there. Long slender fingers reach out to a face as familiar as air, but it’s a face that exists only in his memory, losing concrete shape day by day. All that’s left in Newt’s mind is a vague shape of a handsome face. Sometimes Newt is afraid to continue remembering what Percival looked like; the harder he thinks, the more his love’s face loses shape until the only thing Newt feels is guilt. Because what person would forget the face of someone they loved?

He falls asleep, and in his dreams he feels a soft caress on his head, fingers combing through his unruly curls, much like Percival did when they lay in bed together, done with dangerous missions for the day. It’s a feeling akin to home and security and comfort, and it’s something Newt hasn’t felt since the day Percival died. There’s a voice telling him that he should open his eyes, and it’s soft and gravelly and amused, but Newt doesn’t want to wake. He won’t. If this dream is the only time he’ll remember what Percival felt like to him, he’s determined to catch on to that dream and never let go, because reality is harsh and taunting and he doesn’t want to forget.

The pressure on his head grows, the hand ceasing its movements and merely resting there, warm and reliable and real. Much to his irritation, Newt finds his eyes fluttering open of their own accord. He’s already started to mourn the loss of dream Percival, but there’s a flicker of a shadow and he looks up, and finds Percival looking down at him. It’s not really Percival, he knows; the semi-transparency of Percival’s “body”, if you will, gives it away. And yet, at the same time, it _is_ him. Newt recognises the little frown ever present between his love’s bushy brows, the straightness in his back, the crisp lines of his clothing, the drooping at the corner of his mouth. More than that, he recognises how being with Percival _felt_ , and the agony at losing him all over again.

There is no dramatic reunion. Newt doesn’t breakdown in tears and ask a silent Percival why he left, far too early. Ghost Percival doesn’t rematerialise as a human being because the dead don’t come back to life. There isn’t a howling of thunder or gusts of winds that probably should have accompanied the return of Percival’s ghost. It’s all still silence, where the two drink in the sight of the other. Thousands of thoughts race through Newt’s mind, and idly, he wonders if the same is true for Percival. But what good are questions, unless they can bring back the dead? What good are exclamations of “why did you leave me?” when a dead person stays dead? What good is _anything_? Death turns back for no one, not for the good man who died, nor for the other man still waiting in the world of the living. Newt doesn’t accept this quietly, not at first, but then again, the whole month spent screaming at the heavens and later, in frantic prayer, did not bring his Percival back. So what else has he to do, but accept and move on?

Percival grows fainter, and they both know time is almost up. The former Auror opens his arms, with wisps of smoke trailing downwards – yet another reminder that he’s dead. Their embrace is tentative at first, and Newt laughs, truly _laughs_ , when his hands go through Percival’s torso, and the latter rolls his eyes mockingly. They hover around each other, not quite touching but enough that Newt _feels_ Percival, and his love for Newt is as warm as it was when he had a beating heart. They don’t separate, but it feels like seconds when Newt raises his head and sees nothing, that he’s holding onto thin air.

It’s gotten colder in his little sanctuary now that the skies have grown dark without the sun, but everywhere that Percival touched is warm, and so is Newt’s heart. He returns to work, because his babies still need to eat and be assured that mummy is alright. Even as he distributes food to his creatures, Newt’s memory of Percival grows fuzzy, but he’s less alarmed this time. No matter how much of Percival’s face and mannerisms he’ll forget, he’ll always remember that Percival was home and joy and hope to him. It’s enough for Newt to get by, one day at a time. It has to be enough.

* * *

 

They meet twice a year, when the veil between the living and the dead grow thinner, when the sun is about to set. It’s a fleeting glimpse of a spectre that isn’t really there, but when Newt’s fingers trail down a face that is all smoke and faint breath, he’s the happiest, and saddest he’ll ever be. The sun sets, and the only living being standing in the wide expanse of field is Newt.

 


End file.
